The Unbearable Lightness of Harry Potter
by zvenn
Summary: Harry/Draco slash. The war is won. Voldemort is dead. But the scars still remain. Harry Potter became an Auror. And during an investigation, Harry runs into a suspect, one Draco Malfoy, and begins something that neither of them ever dreamed possible.
1. Off to See the Malfoys

**_The Unbearable Lightness of Harry Potter_  
**

_ Chapter One – Off to See the Malfoys  
_

The heat of the August sun beat down on Harry Potter's neck. The air in the small valley didn't move at all, it weighed muggily in the depression, and it was only midmorning. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his robes, dark blue, Auror-standard. _I will eat a Hippogriff if there isn't a thunderstorm before nightfall, _he thought.

As of yet, however, the sky was still steely blue over the flat chalk hills in the south-western corner of Suffolk. The gravel path on which he was walking wound its way down through the valley and up the counter slope, to an expansive two store building, which gleamed white in the bright light. It was surrounded by well-kept, extensive gardens and enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, with an imposing gate including a coat of arms, through which the road led and where he now stood: He had reached The Malfoy Hall.

The gate swung open before he'd done anything in particular. He _was_ expected. He was there to do some pretence work – that was, questioning Abraxas Malfoy about his possible involvement into Death Eater or Dark activities during the war, with the strong urging to not dig up anything. Which, of course, was the problem. And his day had even started as usual – too early, with too much paperwork left over from last week that he didn't care for, with the mind numbing task of filing that paperwork and which had left him bored out of his mind. Perhaps in retrospect, he shouldn't have said that out loud while Robards, in his capacity as Head Auror, was within hearing distance; but he had, and it was the truth.

So Harry had gotten stuck with the Malfoy file, which no one had wanted to take on because Abraxas Malfoy was a big shot in the Ministry. Everyone feared for their own career first. And Malfoy senior was a choleric old man, infamous for the grudges he held; so stepping on his toes was the last thing anyone wanted to do – and now Harry had to.

Harry took the photo from a pocket. It had been enclosed in the file, a paper clipping if the backside was any indication, showing the Malfoys, standing right here where he now stood, in front of the manor, on a sunny day some summers past. Both Malfoy brothers looked quite similar to one another. The older, on the left side, appearing comparatively tall; with pale skin and chiselled, well-proportioned features framed by ash blonde hair and grey eyes, whereas the younger one's were blue and his hair more goldish-blonde. Otherwise, he looked like a smaller copy of his brother, both exceptionally beautiful.

They smiled at the camera-lens, an arm around their grandfather who stood in the middle, and eventually, the young boy burst into a silent fit of giggles, while his brother tried to reprimand him. Harry watched him stuff his fist into his mouth to stop the giggles from escaping.

It looked like a perfect happy little family. And the youngest Malfoy looked like a little angel in his white dress.

The front door opened. A small head with overly large ears and eyes peered around the doorframe, outside, at me.

"Is Mister Auror Harry Potter sir not going to be coming inside?"

Harry stuffed the picture back into his pocket and shrugged.

"If Malfoy is ready now."

Harry entered the main hall, which was as high as the building. After the sweltering heat outside, the first thing he noticed was the coldness. It swept across his face, crawled up his arms until it made him shiver. The thick stone kept the air even in the blazing summer sun as cold as in a grave.

"I is telling Master Malfoy that yous be here now."

With that the House Elf popped away, while the door closed behind Harry with a soft sigh. And the house was silent, which somehow seemed far louder than the loudest noise could have been. Harry stood in the middle of the hall, alone; his back and left arm shaded in a sea green from the light filtering though the stained glass panel that was set in the wall above the entrance doors, which really were more of a portal. Apart from the chandelier with burning candles suspended from the obscure and high-up ceiling, this was the only source of light, plunging the hall into a murky half-dark.

On Harry's left side, a wide, sweeping staircase, tile paved, led in a small turn up to a gallery overlooking the hall on the second floor. Alongside it, on the wall, hung portraits, alive or not Harry couldn't tell; but every single one was staring at Harry, together with far too many hidden eyes from within the dark. The first one was a dark-haired man with a moustache and an especially penetrating gaze, stormy grey eyes trying to drill holes into me; the eyes of a man you'd better not cross. Harry thought this might be Abraxas Malfoy in his prime, or perhaps his deceased son.

Abraxas was still staring at Harry.

Harry started to feel uncomfortable and turned away. On the right side was a lounge area that looked like it had been there for decades just like that; faded red plush on old-fashioned settees. Next to it stood an imposing knight's armour, complete with spear and missing shield.

Harry walked over, his steps on the stone floor echoing softly, sitting down on an armchair.

It was stately, certainly, but it all seemed to radiate an atmosphere of decline, as though the best years had been past years; stuffy and with the sickly sweet smell of decay in the air, imposing pieces of furniture only surface-pretence, like the apple that was rotten inside, while the surface, red and shiny, desperately tried to keep up an image of that which was no longer true.

Then again, perhaps that was just in Harry's imagination. Harry ran his hand over his face. _What up with me_, he thought.

Something rustled behind Harry, and that was definitely no imagination.

Harry jerked his head around, staring at the stairs. It wasn't the House Elf coming back. It was a boy.

The Boy looked sixteen or seventeen years old; not yet fully grown, but by no means it made him look awkward like so many other teenagers. Instead, the boy seemed to have taken the best of either, which made for a dangerous combination of cute and beautiful. The boy was a little delicate, but his dark blue eyes looked out sharply, too hard. It was a strange contrast to the rest of him, like a piece that didn't fit with the rest of the puzzle. As though the boy had read Harry's mind, he cast down his eyes, peering at Harry through his dark lashes.

The boy started to move, seemingly floating down the stairs, his deep-cut red robes rustling again. They looked good on him. He stopped when he reached the lounge area, smiling a little smile, which showed his perfect white teeth, for a short moment; shiny almost like porcelain; giving him a predatory look.

"You're Harry Potter," the boy said.

"Are you sure?" Harry said.

The smile grew, and the boy took the last step towards Harry, sitting down on the armrest of the chair.

"You're funny." the boy looked Harry up and down. "Cute too. But what would the handsome, heroic vanquisher of the Dark Lord be doing as an low-ranking Auror?"

"He would be earning money," Harry said. "I got an Order of Merlin, First Class, and a lot of handshakes, not a million Galleons. The Ministry's pretty tight on money, after Voldemort ransacked their funds."

The boy giggled in secret merriment, as if Harry just had made a joke. Then he bit his lip and lowered his head, glancing at Harry sideways. Harry wondered if this was the boy's attempt of looking coy. It was ruined by the way he spoke.

"I _bet_ we two could have fun. Don't you think?"

And before Harry could do or say anything, the boy let himself drop backwards, right onto Harry. He stretched luxuriously, his slender, young body pressed against Harry's own. Past his crown of gold blonde hair, Harry had a perfect view down the boy's robes. Harry gaped at him.

"Listen, Angel –"

"Angel," the boy interrupted. "Yes. I like that. You may call me that."

They hadn't yet thought the boy sarcasm. The boy twisted his head, which was resting on Harry's chest, looking up at Harry, and the giggle was back when he realised the view Harry had.

"Nice, isn't it?" the boy's hand came up, small fingers tracing Harry's face. "I like you too."

That was it.

Harry rose, unheeding that it pushed the boy down onto the hard floor. Harry wasn't in the mood to deal with boys right now, much less _this_ boy, and he had an appointment. The boy laughed as he picked himself off of the floor, straightening his robes with a simple flick of his wand.

"Perhaps later?"

Harry sincerely doubted that. The boy turned his body slowly and lithely, without lifting his feet, a step closer, only inches away from Harry. His big blue eyes looked up in Harry's, a little glassy, Harry thought, but it was hard to tell in this light. At that moment, a soft popping noise alerted Harry; past the boy shoulder, Harry saw the House Elf which had returned. The boy must have noticed the change in Harry's look, because his head jerked around. The boy spotted the Elf, gasped a little, and, quick like a deer, darted across the hall and up the stairs. The boy had vanished around a corner upstairs before Harry had released the breath he had been holding.

"Master Malfoy will be seeing yous now," the Elf squeaked. It looked perturbingly composed.

Harry tore his eyes away from the staircase and nodded.

"Who was that?"

"Master Scorpius Malfoy, Mister Auror Harry Potter sir." Harry wondered if he detected the faintest trace of reproach in its squeaky voice, but then dismissed it. What happened in the Malfoy house wasn't his problem; the old man was, and when the House Elf repeated its announcement politely, Harry followed it across the hall.

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy was in his study on the ground floor.

He was sitting in a straightbacked wooden chair, with some ornaments cut into the brown wood, which made it look fancy, but not any more comfortable; surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. There was a large desk, in front of two open French doors leading out into the garden, letting the muggy air inside, still with no cooling draught to speak of.

Harry blinked a little at the bright, daylight-filled room after walking through dim corridors, and my eyes moved over the desk, with a little meticulously arranged stacks of paperwork, on to the fireplace, which was cold and had a little paper ash lying inside it. Neither on the desk nor on the mantelpiece nor anywhere else were any photographs. Harry noticed this, as it seemed rather unusual – only looking at the study, no one would've thought that there were other people besides Abraxas Malfoy living in this house.

In fact, there were only two personal items there as far as Harry could tell: On the marble mantelpiece was an old-fashioned mantelpiece clock, ticking away the seconds as the hand was slowly creeping towards eleven a.m. Over the door, the stuffed grey head of a Graphorn displayed two impressive and wickedly sharp horns. Perhaps it was a hunting trophy, from some decades ago.

The important thing being the 'decades ago' – Abraxas Malfoy was _old_. Harry had to repress the urge to stare at him. Harry hadn't seen him in the Ministry the last two or so years, and now he knew the reason – Abraxas was looking gaunt and frail, almost dead or at least dying. His burgundy robes looked expensive enough, but on him they flagged, contrasting in their appearance with his haggard form, only serving to further highlight his bad state. Abraxas' face was waxen, mask-like; the greyish skin stretched too taut over his cheekbones, and sunken right next to it; hollowed cheeks, the sharp, typical nose, and his wrinkled temple, which his claw-like fingers were now rubbing, shaking slightly.

Harry thought that the choice of the chair wasn't so much done for its dubious comfort than born from the need to appear in this meeting sitting straight, which the almost vertical backrest of the chair provided, and then he wondered why Abraxas wouldn't use glamour charms if he cared for appearances.

As it was, it helped Abraxas to a last rest of presence – together with his eyes, the same slate-grey his oldest grandson had, which, although all the fire they'd held at one time had died, still occasionally flashed sharply from under bushy eyebrows, telling of a shrewd mind that his body was slowly but surely betraying.

Abraxas opened his bloodless lips, and his voice was a dry rustle.

"Some of Ogden's finest, Tilly. How do you like it?"

The last part was directed at Harry. Harry shrugged.

"Any way, sir."

Abraxas nodded, satisfied. The Elf that had led Harry there popped away.

"That's the right way. Old Ogden's works in every situation. I used to refine Rosmerta's Oak Mead with it, two fingers of that and three quarters of a glass of Ogden's beneath it. Sit down, man."

Abraxas snapped the last part, and Harry took a seat in a second chair, similar to Abraxas'. An almost full cut-glass bottle and a glass with an amber liquid appeared on the desk. Abraxas sniffed at it, like bulldog on a rabbit hole, then pushed it towards Harry.

"Have a drink."

Harry rose his eyebrows.

"Nothing for you, sir?"

"Can't. The healer said I wasn't allowed. It would be deteriorative to my health, apparently, but I only think he fears I might die sooner, which would give him less time treating me and thus less of my money. Greedy quacksalver."

Abraxas glared at Harry, as though Harry were the healer.

"As if I weren't dying anyway."

When Harry didn't make a move to pick up the glass immediately, Abraxas waved his bony hand impatiently.

"Go ahead. I like watching others drink. Some man you are, if you have to indulge your vices by proxy, eh?"

Abraxas wheezed out a dry chuckle, and perhaps Harry looked a little baffled when he sipped his drink, because Abraxas glared at him again, before he was stopped by a sudden violent coughing fit. The elf was suddenly back again, carrying a silver plate which a single vial with a clear liquid on it. Abraxas downed it in one gulp, the prominent Adam's apple in his lean grey throat moving heavily as he swallowed. Harry frowned.

"You are looking at a man with terminal magical burnout. I understand that answers those ridiculous and impudent questions you came to ask?"

Harry started.

That explained his condition, as well as the missing glamours, if he had no one to do it for him.

"You can't do magic anymore? Not even a simply _Lumos_?"

"I'm no better at magic than a filthy squib, Potter," Abraxas growled. "My magic slowly started to wither away approximately ten years ago, and in the last two, my body has started to follow right after, when it couldn't live without magic any longer. Nowadays, I'm as helpless as an infant, depending on the stupid elves and my damned grandsons, whenever they feel like being helpful."

Sidetracked for a moment from the questions regarding his involvement in the war, Harry placed the quill and the parchment he had taken out onto the desk. Harry couldn't, for the life of him, imagine the boy he just had met caring tenderly for his fatally ill grandfather.

Harry said, "I met Scorpius in the hall. He didn't particularly look the caring type. Well, at least not for anyone your age."

A cynical smile showed on Abraxas' thin lips.

"He did anything to you?"

Abraxas said it as though he was expecting him to.

"He sat in my lap."

Abraxas snorted like a horse.

"Little harlot. Bet he was on some potions again, too. I wouldn't know – how the hell am I supposed to know what's in vogue today there? Eh? That's your field, man."

Abraxas stared at Harry as if Harry would tell him what potion was currently hip in the magical underworld and what his grandson might have downed. Harry stared back at him, wondering about the manner in which he spoke about his grandson. To a stranger, no less. There always were rumours – both brothers were said to be wild and unrestrained, but it was always on the quiet, hush-hush, with nothing substantial ever showing up in any official records. Yes, the Ministry was indeed more helpful than ever.

For those who could afford it and knew the right people.

The old man nodded slowly, as if reading Harry's thoughts and perhaps he was, since Harry had never mastered Occlumency. His head moved with as little exercise as possible, as if his neck was afraid of the weight of his head.

"But you're right, most times it is only Draco looking after me. Scorpius isn't even of age yet. He's a spoilt child testing his boundaries and finding none, and otherwise delights in being cruel and shockingly superficial. You want to know something, Potter?"

Harry probably didn't, but Abraxas was going to tell him anyway.

"I can't _stand_ my granddsons. They are useless, rotten things. Especially Draco. Oh, he's smart alright, and the right kind of smart too, calculating, ruthless, but he doesn't give a Hippogriff's arse about family. So I would naturally throw him out and dump him at a brothel, but of course …" Abraxas' gaunt, almost skeletal hands rose from the desk, shaking slightly, making his point. Then he made an angry noise. "Bah, I bet even that wouldn't make his blink. Cold, stuck-up trash. Sometimes I wonder if he's even capable of anything resembling affection, the damn bitch."

Harry only stared at him with his mouth open. Where had that come from? Abraxas' lips stretched into a nasty grin, nearly disappearing in the process.

"Shocked how I talk about my own kin, Potter? I'm just being a realist. I feel like I'm old enough and senile enough to not longer indulge into self-adulating hypocrisy and not longer care about what I say, and most importantly, about what my grandsons do. It's not as if I could stop it. Neither has an ounce of moral that I know of, but then again, I don't either. They are picking their own roads to perdition, as has every Malfoy, so I can't say I feel the tiniest bit sorry for them."

Abraxas looked at Harry, seemingly satisfied with his rant, and added more choice words; and Harry was momentarily taken aback at the sheer plethora of filth and the torrent of abuse he poured over his grandsons in front of him. Never mind that from what Harry knew, every last word of it was probably true, but Abraxas was still their only remaining family. Instead, Harry got the feeling that he enjoyed degrading them as much as he enjoyed throwing people off balance. There was absolutely no love lost between them. It wasn't any of Harry's business, at all, but he couldn't deny that there was a certain horrible fascination at seeing the happy little family from the paper clipping torn to pieces in front of his very eyes, to see the ugliness that was beneath the perfect, shiny surface of that picture.

Harry shook his head and downed the rest of the Firewhisky. It burned in his stomach, Harry hadn't yet had a decent breakfast as he'd been running late like almost every Monday, but it helped him to focus back onto his task. Harry set the empty glass onto the desk, and picked up his quill. Self-inking, ever-sharp.

"So you weren't involved in any Death Eater or other Dark activities, then?"

It was an half-arsed attempt to catch the dour old man off guard.

The only thing it did was trigger another fit of rage. Malfoy started to breath heavily through his nose. It was a stertorous and unhealthy sound.

"Are you completely incompetent, you inane idiot? I just told you that my magic is gone, which of course you will keep confident." He fixated Harry with an irate glare. "When the Dark Lord was around, I was already severely weakened, unable to be of any use. Imagine a Mudblood. That weak."

Harry let that comment pass. "Your son was a Death Eater," he said.

The burst of temper was gone as quick as it had come. All of a sudden, Abraxas was cautious.

"I wouldn't know anything about that. I was as shocked as anyone when he turned up dead, and they later discovered he'd died involved in some unpleasant affairs."

"I'm sure," Harry said surlily. Harry was sweating again. The cooling charm had worn off. The sweltering air coming inside didn't become any cooler with the drink in him either.

A many-coloured butterfly swayed through the open doors, settling on the desk like a sparkling gem.

Naturally, Abraxas was lying. It was totally unbelievable that he hadn't known what his son was doing. Harry knew that, and Abraxas knew that Harry knew, but Abraxas also knew that if he didn't come out and flat out told Harry that, there was nothing Harry could do.

Abraxas' hand came down crashing, crushing the butterfly.

"Bloody insect."

Suddenly, Abraxas' hand clenched around the edge of the desk. A vein throbbed and his eyes widened until there seemingly was more white than there could possibly be. He started to cough painfully again. It sounded like there was something inside him trying to get out. Abrupt spasms shook him and he fell forwards out of his chair. His legs didn't carry his weight and gave way. He crawled on the ground like a beetle, twitching uncontrollably, flailing his arms, unable to rise again by himself.

Harry jumped up, in order to help him, although truthfully, Harry had no idea what he should or could do in his fit.

"Tilly!" Abraxas croaked.

There was a popping noise at once. The eyes of the House Elf grew to impossible sizes as it noticed Malfoy's state.

"Master Malfoy," it wailed. "Oh no, oh no. Tilly will get Mrs. Steven-"

"No! Not that damn – I – argh – "

Abraxas' convulsed and was coughing his lungs out, grabbing blindly into the air.

The House Elf looked at him, then snapped its fingers and another vial appeared. With trembling arms, it handed it to Abraxas Malfoy. He spilled half of it, the rest he somehow got down his throat, but apparently it did the trick, as his coughing stopped.

Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

"Oh no," the House Elf moaned again. "Poor Master Malfoy. He will need rest. Tilly will bring him to bed."

It snapped its fingers again and floated the man out of the room.

Harry stared after the fatally ill man. Two-thirds dead, unable to move by himself, his body was falling apart. And yet he had preserved his nastiness. Perhaps it was all he had left.

Harry's eyes moved from the door to the smear of the butterfly on the polished table board, and further through the study. He was alone. He quickly walked over to the fireplace. Bending down, hw scooped up the flakes of ash and put them into his pocket. Just when he was straightening himself again, the elf returned.

"Master Malfoy will not be able to speak to yous more."

"That's alright," Harry said. "If I have more questions, I'll come back later."

It looked like that wasn't what it'd meant, but it didn't respond. Instead it said, "Master Draco Bletchley would like to see yous, before yous be leaving."

"What does he want to see me about?"

The huge eyes peered up at Harry.

"Tilly wouldn't know, Mister Auror Harry Potter sir."

"Well, who told him anything about my visit?"

"The windows is looking out front. He saw yous go in. Tilly had to tell him who yous were."

Harry frowned at the House Elf.

"I don't like that."

It said nothing, only curtsying politely. Harry stared at it for another moment, then gave in with a sigh and followed it out of the study.

* * *

Thanks for reading and please review!

zvenn


	2. Everything Is Illuminated

**_The Unbearable Lightness of Harry Potter_**

_Chapter Two – Everything Is Illuminated _

This room was too big, the ceiling was too high, the doors were too tall, and the white carpet that went from wall to wall looked like a fresh fall of snow. There was a full-length mirror and shelves with books and cut-glass items, goblets or vases or some such. The ivory-decked furniture looked surprisingly modern, as opposed to the rest of the house; all metal and shiny, directly out of a catalogue. The windows stared over the gravel path, towards the flat chalk hills of the downlands. Sunlight streamed inside from the corridor, sparkling in the crystal and blinking on the metal and blinding white on the carpet.

There was taste in it, Harry supposed, but it was a rather cool and impersonal one – and it fitted the sole occupant of the room perfectly.

Harry sat down on the edge of a deep soft chair and looked at Mr. Bletchley, nee Malfoy in his glass coffin. He was worth a stare. He was trouble. He was stretched out on a modernistic chaise longue with his slippers off, so Harry stared at his legs in the sheerest silk stockings. They seemed to be arranged to stare at. Below his snow-white robes, they were visible to the knee and one of them well beyond, the creamy, flawless skin an attractive shade of pale complexion against the white.

The knees were dimpled, not bony and sharp. The calves were beautiful, the ankles long and slim. He was tall and rangy and strong-looking. His head was against an ivory satin cushion; his slightly wavy hair a rich, glossy chestnut brown, contrasting nicely with the dress and his fair skin, and he had the stormy grey eyes of the portrait in the hall.

The most striking feature of his face was the cheek line, high, prominent cheekbones creating a lineament beautiful enough for a poem; the distinctive contour, instead of smoothed over as many would have done, accentuated with expertly done make-up: darker shade beneath the bone, blended perfectly, and a little blush on the apples of his cheeks, highlighting the rare facial structure; a hint of blue-grey eye shadow, turning black towards his lashes; his lips cherry red and full, with a sulky droop to his lower lip and a slight, amused smile on them.

It was this kind of smile that constantly had a light mocking edge, secretly making fun of you. For staring. For the thoughts he knew you had. For imagining, because you couldn't help it.

He was perfect, and utterly unattainable.

* * *

Draco had a shimmering satin matinee glove on his left hand and in his right a drink, acid green. He took a swallow from it and gave Harry a cool level stare over the rim of the glass.

"So you've become an Auror," Draco said. "I never figured you as the type to work for the Ministry, but after all your _legendary_ deeds, becoming an Auror makes sense, I suppose."

There was nothing in that for Harry, so he let it drift with the current. Draco put his glass down on the flat arm of the chaise longue and flashed an emerald and touched his hair. He said slowly: "Why are you here?"

Harry sent a blithe smile Draco's way. "Because you wanted to see me."

The stare continued to fixate Harry and examine him and Draco was waiting for Harry to elaborate. Harry waited for him to ask what he really meant to ask. The silence stretched.

Finally, Draco made an impatient little noise.

"You knew Miles Bletchley?"

"Uh-huh. You're married to him."

Draco shot Harry a look that clearly doubted Harry's intelligence.

"I was. It didn't work out."

"That's a nice way of saying he died."

Now, Draco was becoming irritated.

"Yes, he died. It was a natural death. You know that. Or do you?"

"I heard something like that."

"You're not much of a talker, are you, Mr. Potter? So what are you doing here if you knew that?"

Harry stared at Draco politely through a pause. "Why would you assume that's why I'm here?"

"Oh, I entirely expected a visit of your kind. After those impudent smears the papers dared to print, it was only a matter of time." Draco looked at Harry smoothly across his glass again, emptied it, and called: "Bessy!" A House Elf appeared with an almost soundless _pop_, a different one, not the one that had led Harry here. It appeared younger, with bright green eyes and something that looked like a tattered floor cloth around it. Draco waved the empty glass at it, and it snapped its fingers, procuring a new drink, and handed it to him and vanished again, without a word, without a glance at Harry.

When the House Elf was gone, Draco sighed and said: "Pure blood just isn't venerated as much as it ought to. It's a crime, really. When Granddad was still young, none of _you_ would've dared setting a foot in here." He tapped his polished nails on the glass impatiently. "Well, what do you need to know then?"

"How and when did he die?"

"You don't know?"

Harry sent another blithe smile his way with his head tilted. Draco flushed. His stormy grey eyes looked mad. "I don't see what there is to be cagey about," he snapped. "And I don't like your manners."

"I don't care for yours," I said. "I didn't ask to see you. You sent for me. Now you're drinking your lunch, and I don't mind, really, I've done that. I don't mind you flashing your rings at me, and I don't mind you flashing your legs at me. They are exquisite, wouldn't mind becoming better acquainted. I don't mind that you don't like my manners. They can be pretty bad. I sometimes wonder about them, usually when I'm in the loo. But don't waste your time trying to cross-examine me."

Draco slammed his glass down so hard that it slopped over on the ivory cushion. He swung his legs to the floor and stood up with his eyes sparking fire and his nostrils wide. His knuckles were white.

"People don't talk like that to me," Draco said thickly.

Harry sat there and smiled at him. Very slowly Draco closed his mouth and looked down at the spilled liquor. He sat down on the edge of the chaise-longue and cupped his chin in one hand.

"I ought to march to the Ministry and ruin your life so thoroughly you'd ten years from now still be living with the hags on Knockturn Alley. I really ought to."

Harry leant back in his chair and folded his legs. Harry looked at Draco and waited.

"I loathe masterful men," Draco said. "I simply loathe them."

"Just what is it you're afraid of, Mr. Bletchley?"

Draco's eyes widened. Then they narrowed until they seemed to be only slits. His nostrils looked pinched.

"That wasn't what you came here to investigate at all," Draco said in a strained voice that still had shreds of anger clinging to it. "About Miles. Was it?"

"Should I investigate it?"

Draco flared up again. "Get out! Damn you, get out!"

Harry stood up. "Sit down!" Draco snapped. Harry sat down. Harry flicked a finger at my palm and waited.

"Please," Draco said finally. "I'm worried for Granddad. It's been four years since Miles' untimely death. Then suddenly those stupid articles. It upset Granddad terribly. He liked Miles quite a bit and took his death very badly. You know he's ill. It was after this that his condition worsened. So please, leave him alone – you saw how he ended up today."

That didn't work either. Harry nodded and said: "I heard about the rumours. So you didn't kill him?"

"I had hopes that you would be in possession of a brain and have an idea how to use it, Mr. Potter," Draco said bitingly.

"Oh, I totally agree," Harry said. "I hope that every morning at five to eight. But then the Floo Travel is already over, and I'm at the Ministry."

A faint smile showed on Draco's lips.

"Now that was actually witty. So you can be funny, if you're not sarcastic or vulgar and hiding behind crude humour. But yes –" Draco waved his left, gloved hand "– Miles and I married the traditional way, which includes the Vow of Integrity. You may have heard of it." Draco's voice was mildly condescending, as though he didn't expect Harry to. "Granddad watched us exchange the vows, and so did my brother and two hundred other guests. One should assume that these are enough witnesses."

"Actually, I have heard about it," Harry said. "The vow, I mean. Wasn't it created during the 16th century? To prevent spouses from rivalling wizarding families from killing each other for some gain or another? How does it work?"

"I have no idea how it works, Mr. Potter, and I don't particularly care either. The fact is, it does work, and so any insinuation from third parties as to what my intentions may have been or what I did to him are not only utterly laughable, but also serve to display the inferior intellect of the accuser."

"Well, who would display such deplorable lack of intellect?"

Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say. The tension left Draco's body. Then he smiled at Harry winningly. "You didn't know then." Draco's voice was almost gleeful, as if he had outsmarted Harry. Maybe he had.

"I knew about your deceased husband, yes. That's not why I was here. Is that what you've been trying to get me to say?"

"I'm sure I don't care what you say."

Harry stood up again. "Then I'll be running along." Draco didn't speak. Harry went over to the tall white door he had come in at. When he looked back Draco had his lip between his teeth, biting it lightly.

Harry went out, down the tile staircase to the hall, and the House Elf – Tilly, not Bessy – appeared out of somewhere with Harry's hat in its hand. Harry put it on while it opened the front door for Harry.

"You made a mistake," Harry said. "Mr. Bletchley didn't want to see me."

It curtsied again, politely, and squeaked: "I'm sorry, Mister Auror Harry Potter sir. Tilly makes many mistakes. She punishes herself all the time. She shall do so now." It closed the door against Harry's back.

Harry stood on the step taking a deep breath and looking down the succession of terraces with flowerbeds and trimmed trees along the gently sloping hillside to the high iron fence with gilt spears that hemmed in the estate. All kept neatly in order by House Elves, no doubt. The gravel pathway dropped down between low retaining walls – natural stone, granite, perhaps – to the open iron gates. Beyond the fence the hill sloped into the green valley Harry had come through. He could see for a few miles from up here, and it looked rather idyllic.

Another contrast to the inhabitants of The Malfoy Hall, then.

Then again, Draco did have nice legs. Harry would say that much for him. And seeing Draco with his eyes sparking like lightning in a thunderstorm was something quite beautiful in its own right. Harry walked down a narrow brick path from terrace to terrace, followed along inside the fence and so out of the gates to beyond the wards, where he could Apparate.

A massive bank of clouds was gathering by now on the western horizon, above the chalk hills. The sky was pitch-black there. Harry wiped his face again and applied a new cooling charm, as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Yes, there definitely would be a tempest today.

Harry had always loved lightning.

* * *

Harry returned to Auror Headquarters. The Aurors didn't have actual offices, rather the large, open area was divided into cubicles. People leant over the walls to talk, and so the room was constantly buzzing with conversations. Those who preferred silence put silencing charms on their cubicle, although it annoyed Robards, because he had to write a memo or come over himself instead of simply bellowing a name if he wanted something.

Harry crossed the open hardwood floor directly behind the oak doors leading into Headquarters and was stopped after three steps by a voice calling his name. It sounded a little like someone had just swallowed a goblet of Skele-Gro.

"Potter."

Well, speak of the devil. Harry stopped and turned around.

Gawain Robards, Head Auror. Glaring red robes, a fashionable and meticulously arranged ponytail (Harry was sure he spent half an hour in front of the mirror every morning), not entirely incompetent, but first and foremost a pompous dick.

"No longer bored, I trust?"

Oh, and he didn't particularly like Harry. Which was entirely mutual.

"Thoroughly entertained, sir. Did you know that Malfoy doesn't like you? We had a good laugh about it."

He shot Harry an irate look and growled something.

"I'm sorry?"

Robards eyes narrowed.

"Don't get smart with me, Potter. That report better be on my table by the end of this week."

Robards turned and marched down the floor.

"And if you're bored and out of work again, there's plenty more where it came from," Robards snapped over his shoulder.

Harry didn't doubt that at all, but he hadn't been bored because he was _out_ of work, but because _of_ the work. Although he couldn't have been talking about more screening cases. Now, almost four years after the war, that was coming to a close. Malfoy had been left for one of the last, if not the last, as no one had wanted to take it on, fearing to draw the ire of the notoriously choleric old man.

Which was as good a description as any for the state of things in the Ministry.

Harry's cubicle was cramped, with a desk with built in drawers taking up nearly half the space in it, and leaving you with the other half to sit in front of it. It was notoriously untidy, Harry simply couldn't be bothered to tidy it up – He knew where most things were. Most of the time.

There _were_ a few stacks of folders and papers and old wrappers of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum and a _Daily Prophet_ with the Quidditch results from a year ago and some other things he had no clue of, but you could see the brown table top. In one place, anyway.

On the highest stack, someone had thrown a yellowish brown folder. It bore the name _Malfoy_. He gave it a good scowl and for good measure did the same to the picture of Robards on the wall. He'd stuck a few paper clippings there, reports of the trials of Dolohov and Lestrange, and the interview with Robards. Had to know your enemies and all that.

Plus, the picture looked worse for the wear, with his left half of his face blasted off, and Harry had put a notice-me-not-charm on it.

The last article came with the caption _"Screening: The Story of Success"_

It gave a brief summary of the general idea - it had been introduced by Kingsley, pretty soon after his appointment as the Minister of Magic. The idea had merits. Remembering what had happened the last time after Voldemort's fall, he'd written up the _Death Eater Prosecution Act_, which should allow Aurors to question and screen anyone they thought suspicious, by any means, without any reservation.

Of course, that was the theory.

In practice it turned out that Kingsley was unable to follow through with these drastic measures. The days of Fudge were past. Citing his example, the high-ranking Ministry officials that had remained after weeding out Voldemort's puppets refused to concede that much power again. In the end, the only circumstances under which they had agreed on Kingsley as the Minister at all was the empowering of the department heads. Action now could only be taken and bills only passed if a majority of them agreed to it.

While again good in theory, it meant that the Minister lost almost all of his influence – as long as he didn't pander to the old families, purebloods, the elite, since as in any good society that prided itself in its _égalité_, the top executive positions that didn't get elected were firmly in the hands of purebloods. Considering that, and the people likely to be suspects and questioned for involvement in Voldemort's reign of terror on the other hand, their answer to Kingsley's proposal was as obvious as it was predictable.

That was something the article didn't mention.

They had been up in arms against general suspicion, as they called it. They wouldn't be questioned under Veritaserum. There wouldn't be surprise-visits. No one would be forced to admit something he didn't want to. The short of it was that the rounding-up of Death Eaters lost its momentum after the Ministry was re-established, never gained it back, and a good idea died a miserable PR-death. As a compromise, they increased the manpower, so an entire sub-division of Aurors was given the task and not the means.

But that paper praised it as a _"wise and consequent"_ move of the Minister, euphorically celebrating the fancy name of "Taskforce for tracking and convicting former Death Eaters" it was given, and rested _"… safe in the knowledge that the Ministry was doing its job, and no Death Eaters would live amongst them."_

Quote Malcom Avery. Currently valued senior writer in the department of politics and deputy editor of the Daily Prophet.

Harry scowled at the brown folder on my desk with Malfoy's name on it. The picture was lying askew on top of it. Abraxas Malfoy was a Grade II, which meant suspicion by affiliation – which, quite frankly, Harry could understand being angry about. If one member of your family had been a confirmed Death Eater, as had been Lucius Malfoy in this case, his son, you'd tell off anyone who came their way and pointed out that therefore, you'd be more suspect than others, too. Even if it was true. It was the general idea behind it, of looking at you not as an individual, but as member of a group.

Perhaps that was the only practical way to do this type of Auror work, you had to start somewhere with your investigations, after all. But on some days, it left a bitter taste.

Today was such a day.

* * *

Harry composed the report. It was a short report.

_Suspicion: Grade II_

_Result: Cleared, without any qualification_

_Further notes:_

_Suspect interrogated on Monday, August 15th 20… Exonerated due to severe illness, which made any participation in Death Eater activities impossible. Knows nothing about the actions of one Luicus Malfoy and the circumstances of his death. Suggested further course of action: none._

_Signed:_

Harry's quill hovered above the sheet, ready to sign it and then shelve it. It was a neat, clean job. No one would fault him. Quite the contrary, He'd be fine, people would congratulate him for having done the job quick and without bringing Malfoy's ire down onto the Ministry.

It would be a tedious, thankless task to prove anything else. It wasn't even worth the effort. If Harry could somehow prove that he had known about his son or any other Death Eater and not told the Ministry, which _was_ punishable, for a matter of fact, he'd get away with nothing more than a fine. Someone would see to it, even if there was up to five years Azkaban for that.

More interesting were the names Harry would possibly dig up, by poking his nose deeper in Abraxas' affairs. It'd be the chance to review the war, perhaps for the last time ever. Beyond sentencing the obvious culprits, the two years of Voldemort's reign were one big cold case. There were smaller and bigger crimes, people who had profited unjustly and others who had suffered undeservedly, but it all had been left behind only too readily, pretended that it had never happened and everyone had but slept and had a bad dream.

Yet Harry had been hampered and got spanners thrown in his work at every turn, become hugely unpopular, probably get to see more of Robards than he liked, and, in the end, most likely kicked out of the Ministry for his troubles. No one would want to hear what he dug up. And it wasn't even certain there _was_ something to prove. It was perfectly possible that they were clean.

He snorted mentally.

Well, not exactly clean, then, but not entangled into Death Eater activities more than your average pureblood family. He had only his instinct that told him something was there, in Malfoy senior's and Mr. Bletchley's strange behaviour.

He stared at the photo of the Malfoys. Then at his own writing. The shiny surface. Just pretence, no substance.

He could let it rest. Continue to do his work, be bored everyday and hate Robards; some days more, other days less. Or He could take it on and for once get to the bottom of a case, with the ultimate _fuck you_ to Robards and his just-don't-look-too-hard-policy. Without giving a shit, he had nothing to lose. Burn all the bridges behind him, and go down in a blaze of glory.

It'd be the end of his career in the Ministry, certainly.

Picture-Draco winked and blew him a kiss.

Although truthfully, He'd played already with the thought of resigning a few times. Staring at that grainy brown parchment on his desk (he couldn't count the months he'd spent reading and in dusty ministry archives) now made that resolve only stronger. This wasn't what he wanted out of life. He hadn't yet found the right thing, but he was sure that this was not it.

He sighed. Draco now had the faint, mocking smile that did those nice things to his lips.

All by itself, Harry's left hand crumpled up the already written report and threw it into the bin besides his desk.

* * *

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zvenn


	3. Flawed Assumptions

**_The Unbearable Lightness of Harry Potter_**

_Chapter Three – Flawed Assumptions_

Harry leant back in his chair and stretched his arms. Now that he'd decided to continue with the investigation, he felt oddly elated. He hadn't been this excited in years. There was the thrill of the beginning of a chase, the tingling in the stomach that was largely due to the feel in his gut that _something was there_, and the satisfaction of working again – and not on files in dusty archives.

Something was there. The feeling could be wrong, but usually it wasn't. And as things looked now, Harry thought he might have a lot of fun finding out what.

Harry spent the next hour going through Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy's files, but there wasn't anything in there he didn't know already. Both had been followers of Voldemort, even though only Lucius Malfoy had been marked. The file concluded that yes, they'd obviously been Death Eaters, and yes, both were dead, so that was that. It was shoddy, unsatisfying work. Half a sentence on what they'd done that got them killed, nothing whatsoever on what they'd done for Voldemort before that, when they had joined, if they had been members already the first time around, what their standing had been in Voldemort's ranks.

It was exactly the kind of report currently in Harry's trash bin.

Harry even looked at both Bletchleys' files. They hadn't a record with the Aurors, only the standard one from the Census Office. When he carried them back into the Auror office, after having them bargained out of a surly Mrs. Witherspoon that would give Madam Pince a run for her money, He met Pat O'Rourke with a coffee pot in his hand. Pat was large, Irish, friendly and more than thirty years Harry's senior, but not Harry's superior. Which explained his first three traits. Or well, perhaps the second and third one. Harry and Pat worked together on occasion, and Harry'd gotten to know him a little. Pat was a pureblood, lived alone and had always wrinkly robes on. Pat said it was because he was rubbish at the Ironing Charm.

Pat frowned as he saw the files.

"You investigating Bletchley's death?"

"No, I'm not."

Pat looked at Harry sceptically.

"Well, you don't have to tell me, I guess."

"I'm really not," Harry said. "I'm screening the Malfoys. Abraxas' grandson is filed under Bletchley, since he married."

Pat still looked sceptical.

"He was what back then, seventeen? That's a bit young to be working for You-Know-Who, don't you think?"

"Nott junior was sixteen, Pat. Anyway, that's why it's called screening, you know? If you knew what you were looking for, you wouldn't need it."

Pat rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Harry. Great that you figured that one out. Have fun, then."

Harry laughed and went back to his desk.

Draco Malfoy had finished school in Harry's year – or what would've been his year, had he been at school at that time. Harry only vaguely recalled him from the time before then. Draco hadn't been very noticeable. _Quiet, most times found in Parkinson's clique_, Harry thought, but Harry had never cared. Draco's marks were exceptional, though.

Harry took the sheet with the stylised H and the four animals in the crest on the top of the page from the slim folder. Draco's Hogwarts certificate, signed by Headmaster Severus Snape, showed no NEWT in Transfiguration, but Outstandings in Potions and Charms and Muggle Studies. Alecto Carrow commended him 'exemplary understanding of the superiority of the wizarding race'. Examiners from the Ministry noted his excellence with complex charmwork and his knowledge of unusual potions. With recommendations like that, he could have started almost anywhere, anytime, and have a great career ahead. But only four months later, another certificate showed the marriage to Miles Bletchley. He had practically been married right out of school.

His father had arranged it, half a year before he died. Miles Bletchley in turn had died at the age of sixty-three; the noted death was sudden heart failure. He had been the last Bletchley of his family branch, there were other Bletchley's around, but they were some remote cousins. He probably had been looking for someone to entertain him, and made the marriage deal with Lucius Malfoy regarding his son in exchange for some money. That was the way it usually worked.

From that moment on up to the point where Draco Bletchley's status was noted as 'widowered' and Miles Bletchley's as 'deceased', ten months later, and a week after Harry had killed Voldemort, there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. Harry stared at the two pages and wondered what was lying in between._ What had his marriage been like? Had he liked him? Despised him? How had his life been, then?_

Draco Bletchley, the faithful homemaker, a content trophy and source of entertainment to the forty years older Bletchley? That really clashed with Harry's image of him. Even if it was for less than a year.

The records showed Harry nothing of all that. It was time to do something else. Harry threw the gum wrappers into the bin and pushed the files aside, combining two stacks of papers into one that now teetered precariously, to clear some space. Then he emptied the contents of Abraxas Malfoy's fireplace, which he'd carried in my pocket, onto the desk.

That had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, it had seemed a little odd, that was all – it was summer, the study with the open doors was warm if not hot, so there wasn't any need for fires. And Harry doubted the House Elves would leave ashes lying in there from the winter or whenever it had been used the last time.

It hadn't looked like it had been used recently, anyway. The mantel had been clean, not sooty.

So that was the reason Harry now had a small pile of ash on his desk. For that matter, it wasn't so much ash than badly burned paper – many bits had remained, yellowed from the heat of the fire, yet enough so that any things that might have been written on it were lost. He squinted at it. For all intents and purposes, it was something, and that something had been destroyed. Harry needed it repaired. He pulled out his holly wand, pointed it at the mess on his desk and said: "Reparo."

The pieces didn't rearrange themselves back into a piece of paper.

Sighing, Harry resigned myself to look up other, better restoring spells. He conjured a plain wooden box and pushed the heap into it when he paused, astounded. There were now lines on it. He carefully levitated another piece, about as large as a small fingernail. It had some ink on it that looked like a part of a picture. It seemed like the writing had been restored, but not the piece of paper. So the spell had worked partly, at least. Groaning mentally, Harry realised the result: He now had a puzzle.

Harry hated puzzles.

Harry was still staring at the pieces, getting more and more annoyed, when Robards suddenly poked his head in, wearing a sodden cloak and hat, both black. He usually ate lunch out.

"How's the work coming, Potter?"

"Excellent, sir. You're dripping all over it. How's the weather outside?"

Robards gave Harry a death glare and marched on to his office, leaving a wet trail behind. Well, at least he'd earn enough to buy a rain-proof cloak. Harry didn't need one. Standing up, Harry called over to Pat. Pat's red head rose over the rim of the white separation wall.

"Hey, Pat. Do you know where Bletchley lived?"

"Had a house in Mayfair, I suppose."

Harry whistled. Pat shrugged. "Pureblood family, not as old as others, but filthy rich. Sure you aren't looking into his death?"

"Yes, still. Whose would it be now, you think? Who was the heir?"

"His husband's, I'd say. He had no close relatives I know of, and if the papers are right, he inherited all his money as well."

Harry furrowed his brows.

"Then how come he doesn't live there?"

"I have no clue, Harry. Ask him if you want to know."

Harry shrugged as well.

"Maybe I'll do that later. You have the address?"

Pat looked at Harry oddly.

"What on earth do you want there? You won't get in. It's warded, just like your house."

"Just look around a little. I dunno. Do you know where it is or not?"

Pat shrugged again and gave Harry a street name.

* * *

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zvenn


	4. Riddle Me This

**_The Unbearable Lightness of Harry Potter_**

_Chapter Four – Riddle Me This_

Harry reappeared in quite a lot of green. A lot of _wet_ green – there was a sudden cracking noise above his head, like the crack of a whip; the thunderstorm was directly over London, and it was pouring with rain.

The storm that the clouds had heralded this morning had finally broken. Fat raindrops crashed onto Harry, dripping down from the sodden leaves of the old plane trees he stood under, on a deserted oval-shaped green. No one was out in this weather that didn't have to be. As if to punctuate that, lightning branched out across the black clouds. Thunder rumbled again. More rain fell. Harry renewed his Impervius Charm. Then he took a look around.

There were very symmetric sand paths, which now had puddles on them. One path followed the oval shape of the little park, and two crossed it, diving it in four exactly equal areas. Someone had been anal retentive. There were a lot of empty benches, and a black iron fence hemmed the area.

Beyond it, typical Georgian-style houses, plain but well-kept façades and very symmetrical as well, lined the square. Harry saw a few shops, a restaurant. He crossed the street and walked through the rain, maybe half a mile following the directions he'd been given by Pat, past more beautiful restored houses in red and dark grey and white. The water splashed around his feet. He could've Apparated right in front of the Bletchley's house, but he didn't want to tip anyone off.

If anyone was there, that was.

Harry turned right, into a quiet cul-de-sac, slowing down in his steps. He took in his surroundings. There was a little bar, but no one was out here either. Not even a cat or something showed its face. He was in central London, and he was alone.

In the side street, the houses were not as immaculately kept as on the main roads. They looked their age, with old, weathered brickstones and the odd wet spot, grey from the rain. Harry found the right house immediately. It wasn't all that hard, because it stood out like a sore thumb; the only one of the bunch looking like the houses on the main street, pristine, as if it had been built just yesterday. Magic had kept it good nick.

It had the same, typical Georgian architecture, in red brickstone. The front door was green and panelled. It was adorned with silver metal fittings, and capped by an elaborate entablature, but that was the only remarkable thing. The door was in the centre of the house, with a sash window on either side, three panes across and two up. The three following floors had three windows each. A strictly symmetrical architecture. It made you want to punch a hole in the wall, just to give it an air of _something_.

Harry tried getting closer to the door, but was rebuffed, unable to even touch it. The wards were indeed still active. This was the Bletchley home alright. Nothing moved inside.

Harry stared at the still house with the green door, wondering why he'd come here. What had he expected? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he was there, he felt a little foolish. And still, there was the feeling again; something told him to wait … and this was as good a place to set the paper snippets together as any, so what the hell. He pitched his camp in a doorway across the narrow street, and a little further up, casting a notice-me-not charm on himself.

And then, Harry waited.

A broken gutter above Harry's head made the rain fall from the eaves, cascade-like, and the water was forming a little puddle in front of his feet. He'd brought the wooden chest with him and opened the lid, and started his puzzle. The largest pieces were placed on the inside of the lid. He applied sticking charms on the pieces to keep them there, moved them around, put them back down and then others up. It was every bit as arduous a task as I'd expected. Slowly, some printed letters appeared on the lid. It looked a piece from a paper. The _Daily Prophet_?

The rain continued to drum on the roofs, occasionally accompanied by growling thunder and flashes of lightning. The puddle before Harry's feet grew. Every now and then, he looked up.

The water ran in a small runnel along the kerb, down the slightly sloping street. The grey pavement had a glimmering sheen, in the yellow light of the old cast iron street lamp on the other side. A bin lorry backed into the street. Harry watched the dustmen doing their job, their eyes always skipping the green door, and continued my puzzle. It was going towards the evening. He was getting hungry.

He arrived five minutes later.

Steps sounded on the wet pavement. It was a man, Harry could tell; the sharp clicks of his shoes were slightly muffled by the drumming rain, but audible. He wore a dark red cape. The rain parted for him. He wasn't tall.

His hair was tucked away beneath a hood, but Harry would've bet that … it _was_ Scorpius Malfoy. Harry was sure. Scorpius stood in front of the Bletchley home, where he had stood. Scorpius never looked around. Harry watched him. Scorpius flicked his wand. The silver-fitted door clicked open. Scorpius went inside.

Apparently, Miles Bletchley had allowed Scorpius access. Interesting. Harry puzzled on and renewed the water repelling charm again. Harry wondered what exactly the relationship between Bletchley and his brother-in-law had been. Had every Malfoys been granted standing access? Somehow, that didn't strike Harry as right. Purebloods usually were notoriously untrusting. At least in Harry's experience.

Scorpius was back ten minutes later, with a small brown package under the arm. He stepped out, closing the door carefully behind him. Harry caught a look at Scorpius' face, ascertaining that it was indeed the youngest Malfoy.

Then Scorpius Disapparated.

Harry sighed and packed up. Apparition tracking was beyond his skill. Not for nothing did the Law Enforcement Department have specialists for that. He'd known he'd lose anyone he'd meet before he even started the observation. Still, he wouldn't complain. At least it hadn't been a complete waste of time. On the other hand, he now had more questions. What would cause Scorpius to take something out of the house, and today? Where had Scorpius put it? And what was in the brown package?

No answers that weren't pure speculations were forthcoming. Harry cast a final glance onto his paper puzzle. It looked indeed like a small part of a _Daily Prophet_. The headline, or what he assumed was the headline, now read Y…-…ho'…G…. The rest was even worse, half bits of letters every now and then. He was sick and tired of puzzling for the day. At that rate, He'd read the article in a year – if ever, as he wasn't sure all the parts where there. It didn't look like it. Was a paper article even a lead?

Harry scowled at the chest.

Then Harry got an idea. The _Daily Prophet_? It was worth a try.

Harry tucked the brown chest away and Disapparated.

* * *

Thanks for reading and please review!

zvenn


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